


Extra Credit

by faithtastic



Series: DWBYG One Shots [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, DWBYG-verse, Dirty Talk, F/F, Face-Sitting, Future Fic, Professor Lexa Woods, Vaginal Fingering, elbow patches, pure filth, really there's no plot to speak of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8674690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithtastic/pseuds/faithtastic
Summary: It's Lexa's first day as the newest member of faculty in the Department of Feminist And Gender Studies at Arkadia University and she's more than a little apprehensive about making a good impression upon the staff and students alike. Clarke helps ease the tension in the best way she knows how. What a Good.(This is set in the same universe as Don't Wanna Be Your Girl, seven years in the future. It's not a requirement to have read DWBYG but it probably helps.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I blame the-villageidiot on tumblr for this entirely. It wasn't the 10k fic you asked for but I hope it's sufficient.

“Clarke.”

At the sound of Lexa’s voice, Clarke burrows a little deeper into the cocoon of blankets. 

“Clarke, I have to go.”

Her answering pitiful groan is muffled by the pillow her face is comfortably smushed into. A pillow that smells of Lexa: her shampoo, her moisturiser, mixed with their usual organic eucalyptus and papaya fabric softener. Clarke hugs the pillow closer, rubs her nose against the brushed cotton, draws as much of that scent into her lungs as she can to stave off reality for a few more precious seconds.

“Clarke.” 

She feels the brush of fingers against her temple, Lexa sweeping a few messy locks off her face. Clarke takes one more deep breath before rolling over and immediately regrets it. Because she’s almost blinded by the rude bolt of daylight that beams through the wide gap in the curtains. 

“Ugh. Fuck.” She shields her eyes. “What time is it?”

From her perch on the edge of the bed, Lexa cranes her neck to glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. “7.15.”

Clarke lowers her hand, squinting at Lexa in confusion now. “Isn’t your first class at 10?”

Lexa’s gaze flits down to the blankets. She picks at a loose thread.

“It is but I thought I’d go in early. Familiarise myself with the equipment setup and give my slide deck another run through.” Before Clarke can open her mouth to say anything Lexa sighs. “I know. It’s just… Indra’s observing my first class and I need everything to go smoothly.”

“Babe.” Clarke reaches out to take Lexa’s hand. It makes Lexa lift her eyes and Clarke’s struck, as always, by their beauty, how the subtle shifts in hue seem to reflect Lexa’s mood. In this moment they’re more slate grey than green, betraying her worry. “You’ve rehearsed so much you could deliver this lecture backwards in your sleep. Hell, so could I because, thanks to listening to you, my knowledge of ‘A Vindication of the Rights of Woman’ is way more in-depth than I ever thought I needed.”

Lexa gives a slightly reproachful look. “It’s a cornerstone text of first wave feminism, Clarke.”

“My point is,” Clarke continues with a light squeeze of Lexa’s hand, “you’ve got this. You’re amazing and passionate and inspiring. In fact,” her eyes drift slowly down Lexa’s body, “all those impressionable freshmen are gonna be crushing so hard on the hot new prof.”

“Clarke.” Lexa ducks her head. Twin points of pink colour the tips of her ears. “Associate professor. And you’re biased.”

“I’m not. Look at you.” 

Clarke traps her bottom lip between her teeth, lets her gaze linger over the long, graceful line of Lexa’s neck exposed by the white blouse, takes in the charcoal grey herringbone blazer with its suede elbow patches, the slim fit of Lexa’s dark jeans. Clarke never really bought into the whole teacher/student fantasy whenever she had to shoot those scenes ( _such_ a cliche) but, Lexa? In that outfit? Holy fuck, she gets it 100%. 

“Is this new?” she asks, running a finger along Lexa’s sleeve.

A little furrow of confusion knits between Lexa’s brows. “Yes but I’m sure I showed you this already.”

“Well, seeing it on a hanger in the closet and seeing it on _you_ are two very different things. You’re gonna cause a sex riot on campus, Professor Woods."

Lexa scoffs, looks away.

Clarke pushes up onto her elbow and scoots closer. She toys with top fastened button of Lexa’s flimsy blouse. There are enough buttons left undone to provide a mouth-watering view of Lexa’s sternum, the sharp ridges of her collarbones. The hint of the lacy edge of her bra is visible. “I mean, was it intentional to show this much skin?”

“What?” Lexa glances down at herself. "Oh.” She looks back at Clarke with large, uncertain eyes. “Is it too inappropriate? Should I change? I think I—”

“Shh.”

Clarke drags the tip of her finger up the centre of Lexa’s breastbone, savouring the tiny hitch of breath it earns her, the way Lexa’s throat bobs as she swallows, the flutter of her lashes. 

“Part of me likes the idea of your students looking at you, wanting you, knowing they can’t have you.” She flattens her palm against Lexa’s sternum, slides up, up to curl around the back of Lexa’s neck. She drops her voice to that low, husky tone that never fails to make Lexa putty in her hands. “Kind of turns me on.”

Those eyes are darker now. Rooted to Clarke’s mouth. Watching under heavy lids as a half-smile tugs at the corner of Clarke’s lips.

“Come back to bed,” Clarke says, leaning up to bring their faces close. Her own eyes flit from Lexa’s hazy stare to that enticing pout. “You’re tense. Let me help you relax.” Clarke tilts her head, angling nearer, nose grazing Lexa’s. “We’ve got time.”

Their lips barely brush but the sliver of space between them seems supercharged. Clarke doesn’t hesitate to press in, capturing Lexa’s bottom lip and sucking briefly at the plush fullness of it before licking into her. The little shudder that goes through Lexa, the tiny noise that gets trapped in the back of her throat, sends a jolt between Clarke’s legs and heat prickling over her skin.

It spurs Clarke into action. She rears up, straddles Lexa’s lap. Brings her other hand up to meet its counterpart, fingers interlocking behind Lexa’s neck. Doesn’t cease contact for a second as she works her tongue inside the slick heat of Lexa’s mouth, teasing and stroking against Lexa’s own. All the while Lexa’s gripping her waist, the soft cotton of Clarke’s sleep-rumpled t-shirt bunching under her fingers.

They retreat only for Clarke to tip her head to the other side, to kiss Lexa again. Slower, deeper. Lexa’s hands grow restless, seeking out the hem of Clarke’s shirt, slipping under to rove over her back, splayed fingers warm and firm over her skin. When they separate a second time it’s for Clarke to pull the shirt over her head then she’s leaning in again, mouths meeting in another soft collision. 

Hot palms round her ribs to cup her breasts and Clarke groans her appreciation into the kiss when Lexa begins to knead at her tits. 

Clarke pulls back slightly, letting out a small huff of a laugh. “This is supposed to be for your benefit.” She kisses Lexa again, feeling the stretch of Lexa’s smile against her lips. 

“Trust me, your breasts are _the_ best method of relieving stress,” Lexa murmurs, before catching Clarke’s mouth once more. Her thumbs circle Clarke’s nipples until they’re pebbled and tight and aching from the stimulation. Until each brush against the hardened tips has Clarke rolling her hips forward, trying to find some friction. “It’s scientifically proven.”

That pulls another breathy sound of amusement from Clarke. “Science, huh? Can’t argue with that. But…” She moves one hand over Lexa’s shoulder, trails down to tug at the lapel of the blazer. “Much as I’m feeling the scholarly ensemble, I think you should take it off. Because you’re not leaving this bed until I’ve made you come. Preferably twice.”

She doesn’t miss the way Lexa’s eyes dart toward the alarm clock. “Clarke.”

Pressing fingertips to the underside of Lexa’s chin, Clarke gently guides Lexa’s gaze back to her own. “We have time,” she reiterates. “You’re as prepared as you’re ever gonna be. I just wanna send you on your way with a smile on that beautiful face, okay?”

For half a moment Lexa hesitates before giving a minuscule nod, full lips easing into a slow, bashful smile. And, God, Clarke loves the sight of it. She lets her thumb follow the shape of Lexa’s bottom lip to the tiny crease in the middle. The dart of Lexa’s tongue against the pad of her thumb pulls a small rough noise from the back of Clarke’s throat. 

“Clothes. Off,” Clarke says, uncaring how demanding it sounds, that her voice cracks over the syllables. 

Together they get Lexa out of the blazer and blouse, tossing both items a little carelessly over a nearby chair before Clarke settles back astride Lexa. She reaches for the buckle of Lexa’s belt while Lexa attaches herself to her throat, sucking open-mouthed kisses down to the join where neck meets shoulder. Lexa’s hands are busy palming at Clarke’s tits, once again thumbing at her nipples. It takes a few clumsy attempts to get the belt off, to release the button at the fly of Lexa’s jeans, to drag the zip down. Clarke doesn’t waste any time sliding a hand between them, beneath the waistband of Lexa’s boy shorts and dipping lower. 

“Fuck,” Clarke chokes out, when she meets the liquid heat of Lexa’s cunt. She’s fucking _drenched_.

“It’s your fault,” Lexa replies mildly, nipping at Clarke’s shoulder, pelvis canting up to bring Clarke’s fingers into closer contact. The seal of Lexa’s mouth against her skin does little to stifle the whimper when Clarke glides over her clit. 

Clarke relishes every tiny twitch of Lexa’s hips as she explores; raking through the soft, damp hair; a single digit tracing the length of Lexa’s slit; parting the outer lips; the tip of one finger swirling in the slick gathered at Lexa’s entrance. While there’s something to be said for the restricted movement of her hand shoved down Lexa’s jeans, what Clarke really wants is to see Lexa spread open for her, flushed and swollen and soaking the sheets.

She withdraws, smirking at the way Lexa practically whines against the crook of her neck. “I want you out of these,” Clarke says, plucking at the offending article of clothing. 

A bit of hasty manoeuvring later and the jeans are off, flung blindly somewhere across the room, leaving Lexa in only her underwear. Clarke pushes her flat against the covers. Her mouth goes dry when she spots the clearly visible wet patch at the front of Lexa’s shorts. Doesn’t have to look to know it’s mirrored by the one darkening her own underwear. The way Lexa’s half-lidded eyes are glued to her crotch is telling enough. 

Clarke looms over Lexa, one knee planted on either side of her hips. Her gaze follows the shallow heave of Lexa’s chest, fastening on the outline of Lexa’s sweet little rosebud nipples poking against the satin cups of her bra; the sheen of perspiration on those gorgeous collarbones; the slow bob of Lexa’s throat as she swallows; the spill of dark hair across the white sheets; finally settling on those magnetic green eyes, their pupils blown wide. Clarke maintains that heavy eye contact while she inches her panties down past her hips and thighs, a silent dare.

For a handful of seconds Lexa holds her gaze and Clarke sees the subtle tightening of her jaw, the flash of her eyes, until Lexa can’t seem to resist any longer. She glances down. Makes this soft, needy little noise that has Clarke biting her lip to suppress a triumphant grin. 

Lexa yanks at the fabric that’s bunched mid-way down Clarke’s thighs. “Off.”

They don’t look away from each other while Clarke rolls to the side to rid herself of her underwear, when she straddles Lexa again, when Lexa reaches for her hips, urging Clarke further up the bed until her knees are shoulder width apart and she’s level with Lexa’s face.

Clarke’s pretty certain she knows what Lexa intends to do but just to check. “You sure?“ she asks thickly. Not that she objects, it’s just… it’s like a fucking lake down there and things are gonna get very messy, very fast.

A small rise and fall of Lexa’s chin is her only answer before she guides Clarke down to her waiting mouth. That first sweep of Lexa’s tongue, a long flat lick from bottom to top, has Clarke pitching forward, loosening a groan that she couldn’t contain even if she wanted to. She grabs for the headboard with both hands to steady herself, fingers wrapping around the wrought iron bars, while Lexa repeats the same motion.

“Fuck,” Clarke mutters as she looks down between them. Lexa’s long lashes flutter, eyes rolling back like the taste of Clarke is the finest thing she’s ever had on her palate. It’s almost too much to watch, to see that long tongue gathering the spill of fluid; the hot, wet slide of it dragging up between her labia; the very tip circling around and around her hole until Clarke’s just shivering and jogging her hips into it, chasing the pressure, not above trying to shove Lexa’s tongue inside so she can ride it the way she wants to.

“Don’t be a fucking tease,” she pants, one hand coming to lodge in Lexa’s hair at the crown. “God, just fuck me.”

She tugs slightly and Lexa’s reddened mouth, her flushed cheeks, her chin, come away shiny. The sight of Lexa’s expression—the sheer fucking _thirst_ —makes Clarke’s thighs tremble, has another gush of arousal trickling down, a thread of it dripping between their bodies and landing on Lexa’s chin. She has to close her eyes for a moment, suck in a deep breath, because she’s in serious danger of coming already. That’s how much Lexa ruins her. She feels like a live wire. Sparking all over. And Lexa’s barely touched her in the way she wants, needs, _craves_.

“Lexa. Please.”

It takes everything she has to stop herself from just dropping her hips and humping Lexa’s face into oblivion. Although, if that sly little smile is any indication, Lexa probably wouldn’t complain. Clarke watches, throat gone tight, as Lexa’s tongue glides over her swollen lower lip. Then she’s leaning up and there’s hot breath breezing over Clarke’s clit before it’s engulfed by Lexa’s mouth. Clarke shudders, rocks into the almost unbearable heat of it. 

“Oh, fuck,” Clarke moans when Lexa hums around her, the vibration sending a jolt charging up her spine. Letting loose another litany of expletives when Lexa licks, flicks, circles her clit, taking the bundle between her lips and sucking, releasing it with a wet pop. 

Lexa drops her chin to lap at Clarke’s entrance, swirling once more around the rim. Slow, too goddamn slow.

“Inside,” Clarke says. “Fuck. I need you inside.”

Her fingers tighten against Lexa’s scalp, around the bars of the headboard, as if she’s clinging on for dear life. Even so, she isn’t prepared for the instant Lexa finally licks into her. They’ve done oral a million times over the years, in a dozen different positions, and it still steals Clarke’s breath, wrenches a desperate string of rough gasps from her. Because, holy crap on a cracker, she’ll never be over how deep Lexa can go. 

(Like, seriously, she’s long wondered if Lexa possesses some kind of lesbian evolutionary advantage that allows her to unhinge her jaw at will. Because no ordinary human being should be able reach that far. Whatever the case, Lexa’s tongue is truly a blessing from the gay gods.)

If her thighs were shaking before, then her knees are practically like Jell-O now. Lexa’s curling her tongue and moving in and out of the slick passage of Clarke’s cunt and her entire lower body feels molten. If it wasn’t for her arm braced against the headboard, the firm grip of Lexa’s fingers around the divots of her hips, Clarke thinks she might melt into a puddle. All the while Lexa’s watching her unravel, darkened green eyes so intent that Clarke feels like they’re boring into her heart and soul. And the sounds. Jesus. The sounds. Sloppy, wet, obscene, perfect, as she rolls her hips to meet the glide of Lexa’s tongue, grinding a little on every downstroke. 

Lexa doesn’t lose momentum. Not when her hands abandon their hold on Clarke’s hipbones to travel up the slope of her ribs to cover her breasts, palms curving around their weight. Not when her fingers close around Clarke’s nipples and pinch hard enough to make her falter. Not when Clarke relinquishes her hold on Lexa’s hair to reach between her own legs, to rub jerky circles around her clit. Lexa doesn’t stop until a powerful surge that starts at the base of Clarke’s spine and spreads outwards like a shockwave leaves her suspended, breathless, speechless, tensing and clenching and finally convulsing around that incredible tongue.

She slams her eyes shut, tips her head back, as the shudders wrack her body. Tries to drag air into her heaving lungs. Lexa withdraws slowly, weaves her tongue up through what must be a tsunami of wetness and places a sticky kiss on Clarke’s clit. Though gentle it still makes her gasp and twitch away, oversensitive. She cracks one eye open to look down at Lexa, sees the evidence of her orgasm bathing Lexa’s mouth and chin, the tiny smile tugging at Lexa’s lips, those eyes at half mast and shining with pride, and it makes Clarke want to devour her.

On wobbly limbs, Clarke shuffles down the bed until she’s able to straddle Lexa’s waist. She delights in Lexa’s sharp little intake of breath, the quiver of her abdominal muscles, when Clarke’s wetness comes into contact with her stomach. Loves the way Lexa squirms when Clarke leans down, arms braced at Lexa’s sides, and her nipples skim across Lexa’s skin.

“Clarke.” Lexa sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. Groans when Clarke’s mouth travels over her flushed chest, leaving a trail of hot kisses in her wake. 

“Hm?” 

“I really can’t be late.”

“Give me a minute. Three, tops.” 

Based off past experiences Clarke knows it’s absolutely possible to get Lexa off that quickly. Yeah, it’s not something she strives for but needs must, right?

“Clarke. I need to shower again and there’s rush hour traffic to take into consideration…”

Reluctantly Clarke lifts her mouth away, sits back on her heels. She frowns. “Going to work all wound up kind of defeats the purpose of this, Lexa.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Lexa pushes up into a sitting position. She touches Clarke’s cheek, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, runs a hand down to the sweaty small of her back. Leans forward to capture Clarke’s mouth in a tender kiss. The fact that Clarke can taste herself, smell herself, musky and heavy on Lexa’s lips doesn’t help the situation. “I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” Lexa angles close again, another lingering exchange that severely tests Clarke’s control. 

Clarke bites down a bit too sharply on the crease of Lexa’s lower lip, earning a quiet yelp. “Fine. Go.” She keeps her eyes trained on that gorgeous pout. “I’ll just be here entertaining myself while you’re gone.”

“God.” Lexa lolls her forehead against Clarke’s. “How am I supposed to talk about Mary Wollstonecraft when you put a thought like that in my head?”

Clarke only smirks. “The feminist struggle is real, babe.”

  
  
*  
  


The first class passes largely uneventfully, aside from the slight technical hitch when Keynote crashes out of the slide deck and Lexa’s wallpaper background gets beamed to a half-full lecture hall. There’s nothing incriminating about it—it’s just a candid photo from their last vacation: Clarke, lounging on a beach towel, wearing enormous sunglasses and a wide smile and… okay, maybe the bikini doesn’t leave enough to the imagination for the wallpaper to be considered work-appropriate.

A few hushed whispers go around the room. Lexa looks over the top of her glasses to see some of the students leaning forward, grinning, others with eyebrows raised. In the back row Indra is a silently stoic and intimidating presence. 

Despite the blush that rises up her cheeks, Lexa remains calm and unflustered as she opens up Keynote again, resuming where she left off and only stumbling over her words a couple of times.

The rest of the hour passes in a haze. Afterwards a few students linger to ask about the reading assignment for the next class, about Lexa’s office hours, what opportunities there might be for extra credit. Lexa does her best to field the rapid-fire questions while she packs up her things. Perhaps five minutes pass before she notices Indra standing near the door, arms folded.

“Well, you have my office hours and my email so if you have any more questions I’ll be happy to answer them. If you’ll excuse me,” Lexa says, leaving the gaggle of freshmen behind and making her way over to Indra.

“Sorry, Professor Forrester. I didn’t see you there.”

“We’re colleagues now, Lexa. Call me Indra.” The woman casts a glance towards the students as they file past. She waits until the last of them has left. “Seems you’ve made quite an impression already.”

Lexa adjusts the strap of her laptop bag, hiking it up her shoulder. “They’re certainly eager. Thirsty for knowledge.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Indra remarks dryly. “Though perhaps your desktop wallpaper dashed a few hopes.”

“Uh, pardon?”

The bafflement in Lexa’s expression brings a rare thin-lipped smile to Indra’s face. “Never mind. Have you seen the faculty lounge yet?” Off Lexa’s shake of her head, Indra continues. “I say ‘lounge’ but it’s more of a glorified supply closet. Come, I’ll give you the guided tour.” 

Indra isn’t exaggerating. The small room is barely large enough to swing a cat. When they arrive, the other two faculty members—Marcus Kane and a woman Lexa doesn’t recognise—are crammed onto the elderly couch. There’s a small kitchen area along the far wall with a sink, mini-fridge, and a coffee maker. Kane practically leaps to his feet to greet Lexa, grabbing her hand in both of his own and giving it a vigorous pump. 

“Lexa. Wonderful to have you on board.”

“Thanks, Professor Kane,” she says through a slight wince, surreptitiously shaking the pain off once her hand is hanging by her side once more. “I’m excited to be teaching here.”

“Marcus, please.” He turns to the woman still seated. “Not sure if you’ve been introduced yet? Lexa Woods, this is Lorelei Tsing.”

Lexa holds out her hand to shake but the woman glances at her for a long second, a look that conveys utter dismissal, before returning her attention to the magazine in her lap. “Dr Tsing,” she corrects. 

“Oh! _The_ Dr Tsing?” Lexa retracts her hand. “I’ve read your research paper on feminist bioethics at least five times. If you wouldn’t mind I’d love to discuss your perspective on it sometime?”

Dr Tsing turns a glossy page and lets out a quiet sigh. “Okay, newbie, turn down the fangirling a notch and we’ll get on just fine.”

Marcus leans closer to whisper sotto voce. “A word of warning: don’t ever use her coffee mug. The last unfortunate soul learned that the hard way. Poor woman’s teaching hayseeds in a community college in the asscrack of nowhere, Tennessee.”

Lexa takes a small gulp, keeps her own voice low. “Which mug is hers?”

“The one that says ‘being bitchy and unstable is part of my mystique’,” Indra supplies, deadpan. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with Dean Jaha. He’s determined to slash my budget again and divert the funds to the Department of Religion, the misguided fool.”

The three of them are left in stilted silence once Indra’s gone. Marcus shoves his hands into his pockets and smiles at Lexa. She returns it awkwardly while Dr Tsing continues flipping through the magazine. 

“So,” Lexa gestures towards the door. “I have some prep to do for my next class. I’m just going to…”

Marcus nods. “Of course. Mind if I tag along? My office is next to yours.”

On the way they make smalltalk about the faculty’s social activities. There’s a potluck dinner coming up at the end of the month, this time around hosted at Indra’s place; they also participate in an intradepartmental bowling league (Marcus mentions a long and bitter rivalry with Theatre Arts); occasional Sunday brunches that Dr Tsing shows up for late and nursing a hideous hungover. It all sounds pleasantly tight-knit.

“Indra and I normally take lunch together at 1,” Marcus says, once they arrive outside Lexa’s door. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“Thanks. I might just take you up on that.” She’s a little surprised to find she genuinely means it.

She roots about in her laptop bag for her key and inserts it into the lock. Frowns when she realises the door is already unlocked. She turns the handle, pushes the door open a few inches, peers inside, and quickly spins around to block the view with her body.

“Um. Great talk!” She plasters a smile on her face, adjusts her glasses. “I’ll see you later?”

He matches her smile with a slightly bemused knit of his brow. Lexa doesn’t budge until he disappears into his own office. Heaving a sigh, she slips through the door and closes it firmly, reaching behind her back to twist the lock into place.

Because, there, perched on her desk, is Clarke. Arms braced on the surface of the desk, legs crossed, the hem of her skirt raised high enough to show a generous amount of shapely pale thigh. She’s biting her lip and giving Lexa a look that’s scorching enough to melt the polar ice caps.

“Professor Woods.”

Two simple words but the _way_ Clarke says them. Sultry, scratchy, dripping with seduction. Lexa honestly doesn’t think she’s heard anything sound so sexually charged (which, given this is Clarke and she has a prodigious talent for making even innocuous things sound filthy, is quite an achievement).

For a second she forgets to breathe, forgets to question how exactly Clarke got into her office when Lexa’s almost entirely certain she didn’t leave it unlocked. She works her mouth but no words are forthcoming.

Tongue-tied, the best she can manage is, “Uh.”

“Tell me,” Clarke says, pushing her chest forward and shoulders back, the fabric of her shirt pulling taut and straining at the seams. Lexa’s gaze strays down to the shadowed V of Clarke’s cleavage, a brief indulgence, before snapping back up. “What’s a girl gotta do to earn extra credit around here?”

Oh, God. 

No.

This can’t… 

Marcus Kane—her _coworker_ , the man who taught her Gender and Transnational Politics as an undergrad—is right next door.

Inappropriate doesn’t even begin to cover it.

She watches, slack-jawed, heart slamming against her ribs as Clarke uncrosses her legs, widening them only far enough to confirm that, yes, she is channeling Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct. Lexa tamps down on a strangled noise and shrinks against the door, head knocking against the frosted glass pane with a small thud. She swallows, hard.

The pink tip of Clarke's tongue pokes from between her teeth. Blue eyes gleam with provocation.

“Fuck,” Lexa mutters under her breath and pushes off the door, propelling herself across the office in a few strides. She seizes Clarke by the cheeks, blots out the flash of Clarke’s wide smile by crushing their mouths together. A minor clash of teeth has Lexa pulling back only to change the angle and swoop in again. Clarke’s lips part eagerly while her hands scramble for Lexa’s blazer, shoving it off her shoulders. Next going for her shirt, tugging it free of the belt, pushing her hands underneath, nails raking up the skin.

“Been thinking about you all morning,” Clarke admits between a series of frantic kisses. Her palms fit over Lexa’s ribs, fingertips skirting the underwire of her bra, then slide back down to her waist to work at the belt buckle. “Couldn’t concentrate on my commission because I kept remembering.” She pulls the belt from the loops in one forceful yank and drops it to the floor. The metal clatters against the polished wood. “You. Eating me out.” She has Lexa’s fly open in seconds. “Your mouth, so fucking greedy for me.” Licks at Lexa’s top lip. “Your tongue in my pussy when I came.”

Lexa shudders slightly, isn’t capable of forming any coherent words beyond a hushed “Jesus, Clarke” before pressing into another fierce kiss. She doesn’t put up any resistance when Clarke pushes the jeans roughly down her thighs, taking the boy shorts with them. She can only whimper, kiss Clarke fuller, dirtier, when one warm hand curves around her ass to pull her closer, hipbones bumping against the inside of Clarke’s knees. The other hand travels down the plane of Lexa’s stomach, over her mound, fingers combing through the coarse hair there for a moment before coming to a rest. Clarke cups her, sucks in a quick breath when Lexa’s wetness meets her palm.

Their lips cling together, harsh breath mingling in the tiny gap between them. “God, just thinking about it got me so…” Clarke’s fingers twitch and without conscious intent Lexa’s hips push into the cradle her hand. 

“Did you…?” 

Clarke only nods.

This time it’s Lexa’s turn to inhale sharply. “Clarke.”

“I got myself off in our bed. Surrounded by the smell of you, of us. Riding three fingers into the mattress.” Clarke’s mouth skates over the line of Lexa’s jaw, hot words mumbled against her skin. “Second time I did it in the shower. Cold tiles against my back, imagining you kneeling between my legs. And that look you get. Like, just fucking blissed out.” She scrapes her teeth against the hinge of Lexa’s jaw, brushes her lips against the shell of Lexa’s ear. Lowers her voice to a raspy whisper. “Then again, in bed, before I got dressed to come here. With the dildo from our strap on. God, it fills me so nice and deep when you fuck me with it.”

Lexa makes a noise that’s half-whine, half-groan. Sinks her fingers into Clarke hair to guide her back to her waiting mouth. She kisses Clarke hard, noses knocking, only to break it off a few seconds later to release a shuddering, grateful sigh when Clarke presses one finger into her, soon followed by another.

“Fuck, Lexa, I love how wet you get for me,” Clarke all but croons as she starts to move her fingers, pushing in to the second knuckle and slowly dragging back out to the tips. Repeating this motion over and over until she builds up a steady rhythm. 

And Lexa, she widens her stance as best she can with her jeans and underwear gathered around her knees, rocking her hips down to meet each thrust, chasing the all too fleeting pressure of the heel of Clarke’s hand against her clit. A quiet noise of complaint gets stuck in her throat every time Clarke lifts her hand away. Instead she tugs on Clarke’s hair to get the point across. 

Clarke smiles into the next kiss.

Over the years—and to Lexa’s eternal slight embarrassment—Clarke’s always extolled the virtues of her fingers but, for Lexa, Clarke’s have their own merits. They always hit the right spots, leave her quaking around their comparative thickness. They’re capable of bringing her to the edge too damn quickly. Like now.

When Clarke pulls back an inch, they’re both panting. “I know you’re close. I can feel it. God, you feel so good.”

“Less talking, more action, Clarke,” Lexa says, high and breathless, before capturing Clarke's mouth again, cutting short the laugh that rumbles up Clarke's chest. 

Lexa reaches between them, fingers wrapping around Clarke’s wrist and pulling that hand flat against her pubic bone. Holds it there to grind against while Clarke’s fingertips crook and rub inside her, a sensory combination that has Lexa spiralling into orgasm so suddenly, so forcefully that she nearly topples forward. Clarke is quick to swallow the keening moan that erupts from Lexa’s throat, all the subsequent whimpers, while she coaxes shudder after shudder from Lexa’s body. Clarke kisses her for minutes, drinking up every sigh, every shaky breath until Lexa’s lips are tingling and her heart rate has slowed to something less than a gallup.

When Lexa opens her eyes, she can’t see a damn thing. “You fogged my glasses.” 

She looks over the top of the frames to see Clarke’s flushed face. Her hair’s kind of a riot and there’s a smudge of pale pink lipstick at the corner of her mouth. The sight of her eyes—dark, heavy, blazing with want—sets off another small throb between Lexa’s thighs. 

“Guess I’m hot for teacher.” Clarke drags her bottom lip between her teeth. Gives Lexa a once-over. “So what’s the evaluation, Professor Woods? Worthy of an A+ or do I need to try harder?”

Lexa groans. “Clarke. Stop. We can’t do this again, not here.” She reaches around Clarke for the box of tissues on her desk to mop up the mess streaking down her thighs. She pulls up her jeans, still trembling hands making the task of zipping and buttoning them way more taxing than it should be. “I mean, fuck. Having sex on school property is gross misconduct. I could be fired. On my first day!”

“Babe.” Clarke’s tone is firm enough to slice through Lexa’s rising panic. “You’re not gonna be fired.” She slips off the desk, retrieves the belt from the floor, and helps to loop it around Lexa’s waist again. “You’re gonna enjoy the rest of your day safe in the knowledge that no one will ever find out about that time your smoking hot wife came by your office to fuck you senseless. It’ll be our little secret, okay?”

“But—“

Clarke silences her with a look. 

Lexa lifts her chin, sets her jaw. 

She nods. Allows Clarke to smooth the wrinkles from her blouse before tucking it into the waistband of her jeans again. She slips her blazer back on, brushing off some dust from the floor.

“How do I look?”

“Good enough for me to be spending the rest of the afternoon with my vibrator.”

“ _Clarke_.” It’s a soft, slightly shocked admonishment.

“I can’t help it.” Clarke gives one of those half-smiles, the kind that's never lost its power to make Lexa weak. “Who knew I had a hidden kink for elbow patches?”

Lexa thinks about all the tweed hanging in the closet at home. 

Well, shit. She may have unleashed a monster.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone's interested, there's a whole bunch of [Professor Lexa headcanons](https://femininechaos.tumblr.com/tagged/professor-lexa) on my tumblr.


End file.
